


Sweet Sour

by FortuneFaded2012



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Amnesia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exotic Dancer, F/M, Kidnapping, Soldiers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortuneFaded2012/pseuds/FortuneFaded2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gale Hawthorne had been living a rather mundane military life in District 2, until one night after work when his partner Jackson took him out to a bar. There he found a ghost from the past whose life took a rather different turn during the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Sour

**Author's Note:**

> "Sweet Sour" is a song by Band of Skulls. It was partially responsible for the creation of this. "Sour by the minute but you're sweeter by the hour" is their property, no infringement intended.

We enter the club to a roar of thunderous music and voices, intermingling in the thick heat of the massive room. My eyes immediately scan the area. The concept of dancing parlors such as this is still mostly foreign to me. No such things existed in my district when I was growing up and I had never dreamed that something of the nature could exist. There were more pressing things to think of.

On the right wall of the room is a long bar that is glowing a faint blue. The baristas are all dressed in lingerie. That in itself is still difficult for my head to get around, having only been used to seeing such scantily clad women during the Games’ tribute parades. When he sees me eyeing the bar warily Jackson informs me that everyone who works here is a woman, except for the bodyguards.

“The owners probably make more money on beautiful female dancers than they would on men. I mean we’re all just hairy ugly beasts aren’t we?” He laughs, referring to a comment the secretary at Headquarters made when he tried to ask her out last week.

We follow the boys over to the blue bar and Jackson claps a hand on my shoulder and declares he’s buying the first round. Another thing I’m trying to get used to is the concept of allowing others to buy things for me. I clench my teeth and nod a thank you. Our group hovers by the bar for a few moments, collecting drinks. I wrap my hand around the cold beer that the bartender places in front of me and look toward the stage.

The dancer moving across the lit platform has purple hair, tan skin, and breasts that are larger than physically possible for her size. She has definitely had some Capitol enhancements. Her body gyrates roughly as she grinds around a tall silver pole, one of three on the large glittering stage. A woman’s throaty voice rasps over the loudspeakers as the purple haired exotic dancer exits the stage, blowing kisses to the cheering mass of men and women in front of her.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the hour is upon us.” Several of the people in the crowd hoot and holler. One man blows a loud hearty whistle. Apparently, they really appreciate the next act. Maybe even came just to see it. I wonder what about the next girl could get them so riled up.

“And now it’s time for the main event. The beauty of your dreams, the devilishly delightful, the delectably heavenly Sweet Sour! Sour by the minute but she’s sweeter by the hour!”

The immense swell of guitar and drum beats fills my ears, drowning the rowdy voices of the excited mass of people. I feel as though my brains are being rattled in my skull with each heavy beat. The curtains open in a roll of black fabric and reveal the thin slender back of a woman swaying hypnotically to the music.

Her skin is a pale cream that disappears beneath her thin lacy undergarments. Her long golden curls fall to her waist and sway with her hips. She maneuvers the stage on impossibly high heels. I feel my mouth gape open as she takes a running jump onto the pole and swivels around it majestically. Her movements are slow and mesmerizing, other worldly. Her arms and shoulders must be impossibly strong to hold her up so effortlessly. The mechanics of it distract me as she moves.

Jackson urges our group forward, drinks in hand. I shuffle absentmindedly toward the stage. The bright lights pulsate over the dancer’s creamy skin while her body twists delicately around the tall silver pole. It’s as if the pole isn’t there and she’s floating through empty airspace like an eagle swaying through the sky in a rhythmic pattern. I’d seen the way the large birds would grapple and almost dance with each other in the sky. Katniss had called it play fighting, as though they were training how to do air battle with prey. Her father had told her about it, that the birds were doing an extravagant fighting ballet.

This woman reminds me of the fluid effortless rhythmic fight. The crowd is cheering as she dangles upside down pivoting, holding on with only her legs. I can’t tell if my fascination stems from her scantily clad body or the hypnotic movements.

The first time that I stepped foot in a dancing parlor I was colossally embarrassed, being entirely unprepared for it. A couple of guys from work had convinced me to come and the naked women were all gyrating around the stage in vulgar ways. I was interested, I’m only human, but something about it was tainted with a degree of Capitol. It brought bile into my mouth and a pain in my chest. I was embarrassed by the nudity, surprised at my own shyness.

Those dancers were nothing like this though. Sweet Sour has gentle, loving, tantalizing movements. She holds onto the pole with one arm and dangles her body in the air, defying gravity. Weightless and completely unhuman, she moves in one moment like a gentle butterfly and in the next like an eagle honing in on her prey.

“She’s a goddess,” Jackson whispers appreciatively as she shimmies her way up a pole that is on our side of the stage.

I want to agree with him, but I can’t speak. I have finally seen her face and something inside me has bubbled up. A memory, I have been trying to repress, of a face that haunts my dreams. I grip my heart and fight the delusion for a moment as she slows her swiveling. I feel an immense confusion as she smiles at the cheering group around me. Her face is exquisite, just like I remember it. Instantly my fascination turns into shocked fear and excitement.

Before I register it I have pushed my way toward the stage and am gripping the edge of the wood platform roughly. The back of my mind remembers that there are force fields on dance floors like these. I saw a man get nearly burned by one the first time that the boys brought me to a place like this.

Large sums of money are being thrown over my shoulder onto the glittering surface of the stage. I stare dumbfounded into the woman’s face as she dips low once more, hinging toward me. The money zings through the force field with soft zaps that I can barely hear.

“Madge!” I yell over the immense music.

Sweet Sour turns her face to me in confusion, but I can see that she isn’t sure who shouted at her. In one long glide, she slides her body from the pole. Her thin frame is glowing in the lights. She frantically searches the faces around me and the crowd is angered by her sudden halt. A few of them leer at her, demanding more, demanding their money’s worth.

I scream the name that I associate with her face and she finally finds my voice in the mass of bodies. She leans against the pole and clutches her head, visibly in pain of some sort. There is a strangled expression on her features as she analyzes me. I want to leap onto the stage, but the force field zaps my fingers when I reach forward. Sweet Sour shakes her head at me, tears welling in her eyes before she runs off stage. The crowd is devastated, angry shouts ring over the pounding music. My head is swimming in the heavy drone of the atmosphere.

“Fuck, Hawthorne what the hell?” Jackson grabs me forcefully by the shoulder. I shake his grip off. I need to get to her. I need to see her in person, touch her, and make sure she is real.

“You know her?” He asks me, when he sees the ghostly expression on my face.

I swallow thickly as we disentangle ourselves from the angered mob of onlookers. I stare back at him, my mind in a foggy haze. Jackson ushers me toward the door. He mutters about back alley entrances or something to that effect. When we pour into the street he swivels on his foot and fixes me with a questioning look.

“She was my – ”, I let my words fade off into the air.

I don’t have a true description for her. Our life was complicated together, forbidden even. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers and sigh deeply. This changes everything, if she really is the girl that I left behind. _I left her behind;_ of course she hasn’t tried to contact me.

“Fuck. I mean, I promised I would protect her – this whole time…I thought she was dead!”

My rage is vibrating through my body. I kick the red brick wall of the nightclub swiftly with my right foot and a sharp pain electrifies my leg. This frustrates me further. My mind is racing in a million directions, grasping for the truth. How the hell did she survive the bombs? Where has she been for the last five years? Why didn’t she contact me? She must hate what I did to her, what I did to us. This rumbling feeling in my chest reminds me of Katniss and suddenly I want to hurl a fist into the wall to stop it.

“Back alley,” Jackson says as he peers around the corner of the building, “maybe we can bribe our way in?”

There is a bodyguard posted by the back exit. He looks gigantic, fierce, and uncooperative. The music from inside is pulsating through the air, deep and accented by the lull of the crowd. I clutch my head between my hands and stare at Jackson desperately. He is assessing the bodyguard. I think to myself that this is a _no go_ situation. I may be desperate, but am I that willing to get the shit kicked out of me? Probably not. I could wait for her to emerge, but maybe she will find a way to avoid me. _Apparently, she’s been doing it for a while now_.

“Fuck.” All I can think is _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Jackson nods at me grimly and crosses his arms over his broad chest. We are both wearing our uniforms still. He stands a foot shorter than me, but he has a stockier build. He would have a better chance against the large man at the door. He watches my internal struggle for a few minutes. Now I want to punch that interested expression off his face, _it will hurt less than the wall anyway._

“Let’s try it. You look like hell,” He smirks at me and grabs my arm roughly to pull me toward the alley, “The worst that can happen is that it will make you feel like hell too.” I scoff at him, reluctantly following.

The bodyguard eyes us with an air of disinterest; he probably gets poor shmucks attempting to get into the back all the time. Jackson sidles his way up to the guard with a large smile. He pulls a huge wad of cash from his leather jacket. The man doesn’t even appear to flinch at the sight of it.

“We’re here to see a particular friend of his, can we interest you in a little bit of a gift to make this less painful for him?” Jackson fans the bills before the large man. I swallow thickly and hope that he receives most of the beating that will likely come next. The man stands from his stool and inspects us more deeply.

“No one sees the girls without an invite.” He crosses his arms over his chest menacingly.

I notice that his large biceps bulge considerably during this action. I suddenly feel feeble, like years of hunting and fighting haven’t actually done me any good. Jackson shakes his head softly and smiles like he and the man are best friends sharing a laugh. I try to stand at my fullest height, being over six feet tall always gives me an edge. I pray that I look tough, despite my cracking insides.

“You don’t understand. He knows her from before the war. He thought she was dead…they haven’t seen each other in…how long did you say it was Hawthorne?” I look between Jackson and the bodyguard apprehensively before I clear my throat.

“It’s been five years if not more. Madge Undersee is her name. Apparently, goes by Sweet Sour now.” My deep voice has a little more vitality to it as I finish the sentence.

The bodyguard looks interested when he hears the dancer’s name. He raises his eyebrows and runs a large hand across the stubble on his chin. He clears his throat roughly. I feel his eyes surveying me for the third time. He reaches forward and frisks me, pulling my gun from its holster at my hip. The hard red bricks of the building scrape at my face as he shoves me against the wall. He smells strongly of cologne, enough to make me nearly choke.

“Only you. He can’t come,” he gestures to Jackson who keeps his face straight, even though I know he would have been highly excited to be in such close proximity to the dancers, “If she doesn’t want to talk, you better come right back out, because if I have to drag you out I will beat your ass in.” I nod at him firmly.

Jackson slams his palm into my back, shoving me toward the door. When the burly man opens it I am inundated with the heat and loud music. The perfumed air scratches my nostrils. The door closes swiftly behind my back. For a moment I can’t move, and then I hear the voices of several women cooing in the next room over. I decide it is safe to assume that they are comforting Madge, so I drift toward the sound.

There is light spilling from the room, the door slightly ajar. It is covered in silver and gold stars with names scribbled on them. I scan them quickly, but none of them say her name. I work up the nerve to knock and raise my hand to the door only to have it whisked open. The purple haired dancer with the large breasts is staring into my face with shock. Her eyes narrow quickly and she presses a finger into my chest, pointing at me angrily.

“What are you doing back here? No men allowed.” Her voice is shrill. I wince slightly and fix her with a firm icy stare.

“I’m here to see Madge Undersee…uh Sweet Sour,” this strange stage name feels wrong on my lips. The fact that she has a stage name at all bothers me.

The woman’s blue eyes widen. Her hand drops from its assault on my sternum. She turns and whispers something to a pink haired girl nearby. The second girl looks just as shocked as her shrill voiced companion. A series of exaggerated gestures and facial expressions are exchanged between the women. Purple head seizes me by the arm and pulls me into the room after a moment.

Immediately my eyes are assaulted with a multitude of scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some of them eye me curiously. There are large mirrors with huge light bulbs stationed on the right side of the room. Make up and clothing is scattered throughout. The surroundings barely register though as my attention is drawn to the farthest mirrored station. My Madge look-alike is crying softly, being comforted by several women. Purple head leads me toward her, exchanging looks with more of the women.

When we reach her side, the blond beauty turns toward us. Her bright blue eyes are glassy with tears and confusion. I want to hug her tightly to my chest, but I fight the urge. I don’t have the right to comfort her anymore. My heart is beating furiously. The steady pump of blood echoes in my ears. I clear my throat roughly.

“Madge,” my deep voice is incredibly soft as it floats between us. I realize that I feel overwhelmed; scared even, of what she might say.

She squeezes her eyes shut and grips her golden head between her palms. One of the women gently rubs circles on her back, while she whispers soothing words. The girl shakes her head in response to a question that I can’t quite hear. The woman rubbing her back has dark brown hair and a tint of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looks young, but something about her has the essence of leadership. The woman appraises me for a moment

“I’m Helena and this is Sweet; you know her…from before the war?” Helena seems apprehensive.

She questions me with her eyes, letting her gaze flicker across my face intensely. I nod, wondering what this is about. I am beginning to get the impression that something very odd is happening here. Why does everyone keep giving me strange looks when I say I know Madge?

“Sweet doesn’t remember that time. Only what happened after.” My heart is beating harder now, my mouth has fallen open slightly, and I stare at Madge’s profile.

“What happened to her?” I demand as I step closer.

My height suddenly seems miles high, compared to all these petite women. Helena seems to bristle with discomfort at my closeness. She shakes her head sadly, indicating that she doesn’t know what happened.

I lean closer to the woman that has been dead in my mind for what seems like an eternity. The last time I laid eyes on her she was standing defiantly in front of her house, telling me to run without her and that she would catch up…asking me to wait for her. I promised I would.

“Madge, it’s me Gale. Gale Hawthorne.” She doesn’t respond.

“Your name is Madge Undersee, you were the mayor’s daughter in District 12.”

Her hands lower at the mention of the district. She eyes me warily. Then finally shakes her head tearfully. She stares at the floor, visibly shaking. My heart feels like it is wrenching from my chest. For some reason I drop to my knees in front of her, gripping the arms of her chair. She looks back at my face, her expression filled with apprehension. My eyes plead with her to recognize me. This woman, who was once Madge, who once loved me…doesn’t even know my face.

“I’m so sorry. I meant to protect you…If-If I knew you were alive…” My voice trails off.

I rock back on my heels and sigh with frustration. I run the fingers of my right hand through my hair, tangling the thick locks. I feel like I might explode with all the thoughts running through my mind. A tight feeling in my chest is disgusted at what might have made her this way.

“Damn it Madge, what happened to you? After the bombs fell I looked for you. I waited for as long as I could-I waited...” This girl, this non-Madge just stares at me sadly. I want her to know me, to hold me again. I want to go back to the bombing and find her waiting in her garden, saying that something had kept her there. I’ve dreamt it a thousand times, finding her next to the burning rubble, ash falling from the sky like snow.

Her soft voice draws my eyes back to her face, “When you said that name earlier, something inside me flashed. I get these images sometimes of people and places. You caused a flash. I saw you standing in a field of grass…” I nod frantically at her words.

“The meadow. Behind the Seam. We used to meet there.” My own mind is dancing with images of the district. Of our time together during the 74th and 75th Hunger Games, it’s been five years and it suddenly feels like yesterday.

“We were friends?” She asks me softly. I think she can see the heartbreak on my face, because something in her features falters when I don’t respond immediately.

“Yes. We were more than that once,” I suddenly feel self-conscious because nearly all of the women have gathered around us. Helena is still softly rubbing Madge’s back.

I fight the urge to yell in frustration. I’m torn between uncontrollable pain and a feeling of elation that she is real, alive and whole. The women seem uncomfortable, but intrigued. I can tell that several of them have realized who exactly I am now. One of them looks like she may ask for an autograph. If she does I will probably punch her in the face.

I begin realizing that being here isn’t going to do much good, considering Madge has no idea who I am. I stand on almost shaky legs, then fish in my pockets for a piece of paper. Only a few coins reach my fingers. The purple haired dancer from earlier provides a ripped shard of paper and a pen, when she sees me rummaging. I thank her with a nod and scribble the telephone number of the barracks.

“This is a number where you can reach me. I would like to talk with you, when you’re up to it.” I press the paper into her palm and try to plaster a friendly look on my face. The mirror at her station reflects my pained expression though. Helena smiles at me meekly, which is an improvement from her earlier expressions of dislike.

“Evening ladies,” I say stiffly as I retreat toward the door. Several of them murmur goodbyes.

As soon as the door closes softly behind me I hear the low babble of their voices. I press my palms into my eyes for a moment and inhale deeply. _What the fuck kind of sick joke is this?_ I quickly exit the back door. Jackson is chatting with the bodyguard, who doesn’t look entirely pleased with his conversation partner. They both sigh when I open the door, perhaps the bodyguard’s was one of relief.

“So, how did it go?” Jackson says as he claps a hand on my shoulder. Every muscle in my body feels tense, wired with frustration. I exhale and shake my head at him.

“That bad, eh?” He says with a snort.

“You have no idea. She has amnesia, doesn’t know who she is…where she came from.” Jackson just stares at me for a moment. He looks thoughtful, and then his features screw up in a maniacal laugh.

“That has got to be the best excuse a woman has ever given to get rid of a man.” He whistles lowly as we both start walking toward the street.

“It’s not like that. You should have seen her face. Frightened, crying…confused. She had no idea who I was.” Jackson stops to stare at me with an, _are you serious_ , face. I nod grimly and pinch my eyes tightly shut. I almost feel like crying…which is bizarre, because that never happens. _Well at least, not since Prim_.

“Unbelievable,” Jackson mutters as we continue walking.

There is a large group of people leaving the front entrance. Their raucous voices bounce off neighboring buildings. Several of them are singing an old drinking tune. It reminds me of a lively jig that Madge used to play on the piano.


End file.
